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Literature Text
sometimes, it's morning. and i've forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. and that i don't believe in anything anymore. and that's when i realize that i'm losing little pieces of myself to you.
and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in reverse. or fast forward. and the next time you see me, i'll be older than i've ever been before. so press play. since i'm sick of being stuck on pause.
and some days, when i'm waiting for the earth to move again, i count every one of my eyelashes and measure the distance it would take for them to fall so i can calculate all the wishes i'm missing. and in a hundred and fifty one days, maybe i can wish that you never happened or maybe i can wish that you really did love me. and sometimes, i pray since i like the feel of your name in my mouth and the way that pretend tastes and the fact that maybe repeating something is enough to make it true. but the truth is this feeling is the exact opposite of believing.
and right now, i want to be twenty three minutes into forgetting you but instead i'm watching your lies change shape as i go backwards through my memories. i like to watch your carefully pronounced vowels wrap into endless loops where you and i become concentric circles since that's all we are. we'll never touch and we'll never go anywhere again.
but all i am are my words. and sometimes, they're not enough. and maybe i've wasted the last forty seven minutes trying to convince myself that "love" and "in love" are two very different concepts. maybe they're not. and maybe if they are, it doesn't matter. since maybe i say i'm not in love. but i'm a liar. the problem is so are you. you once told me, my heartbeat was your favorite song. well, broken hearts don't beat anyway.
and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in reverse. or fast forward. and the next time you see me, i'll be older than i've ever been before. so press play. since i'm sick of being stuck on pause.
and some days, when i'm waiting for the earth to move again, i count every one of my eyelashes and measure the distance it would take for them to fall so i can calculate all the wishes i'm missing. and in a hundred and fifty one days, maybe i can wish that you never happened or maybe i can wish that you really did love me. and sometimes, i pray since i like the feel of your name in my mouth and the way that pretend tastes and the fact that maybe repeating something is enough to make it true. but the truth is this feeling is the exact opposite of believing.
and right now, i want to be twenty three minutes into forgetting you but instead i'm watching your lies change shape as i go backwards through my memories. i like to watch your carefully pronounced vowels wrap into endless loops where you and i become concentric circles since that's all we are. we'll never touch and we'll never go anywhere again.
but all i am are my words. and sometimes, they're not enough. and maybe i've wasted the last forty seven minutes trying to convince myself that "love" and "in love" are two very different concepts. maybe they're not. and maybe if they are, it doesn't matter. since maybe i say i'm not in love. but i'm a liar. the problem is so are you. you once told me, my heartbeat was your favorite song. well, broken hearts don't beat anyway.
Literature
falling sickness.
one.
he reminded you of comets colliding and holding your breath underwater and bedtime stories. he was your rainbow, your sunny sky, your ledge to hold onto and the song you fell asleep listening to each night.
you couldn't get him out of your head.
you didn't even want to.
two.
there was no choice, no other option. there was nothing - nothing but him and the promises in his eyes and the whispers from his lips.
there was nothing but falling.
three.
he made you smile, made you laugh, made you want to live again. the two of you would go to the park just to watch the shadows chase each other on the ground. he'd hold your hand and tell y
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
things that matter.
1
even on the gray days, your eyes flicker dimly with hope. there is still a comet in the night sky, somewhere, singing your dreams and hopes for you.
even in the darkest silence, your heart is still beating, softly, musically. you just have to listen. you just have to hope.
2
you haven't lost yet.
sometimes, life feels like a horrible play, and everyone is outperforming you. sometimes, you lose yourself in the characters you play. you forget your lines. you trip. you screw up.
but it's not over yet. there's always a chance for a happier tomorrow.
but more than that - there's still the rest of today to be lived.
it's not too late.
3
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sometimes, i fall in love with lies.
since they make the truth sound better.
_____
sometimes, i don't know what i'm writing. and this is one of those times. just something i had stuck in my head.
probably scrapsssss. (or maybe not.)
______
full title: broken hearts don't beat anyway
since they make the truth sound better.
_____
sometimes, i don't know what i'm writing. and this is one of those times. just something i had stuck in my head.
probably scrapsssss. (or maybe not.)
______
full title: broken hearts don't beat anyway
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Damn! This is amazing!